


My Name is Bucky

by Face_of_Poe



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: (I guess?) - Freeform, (Someone come tag my fic for me), (sort of), Bucky Barnes's Backpack of Sadness, Captain America: Civil War (Movie) Spoilers, Dissociation, Gen, Spoilers, Stream of Consciousness, What did I even write.
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-15
Updated: 2016-05-15
Packaged: 2018-06-08 12:14:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,124
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6854242
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Face_of_Poe/pseuds/Face_of_Poe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>*** CIVIL WAR SPOILERS ***</p>
<p>He’s trying to decide if Steve is that sure that he didn’t bomb the UN, or if he just doesn’t <i>care</i>, when Steve asks the absolute most irrelevant question if they’re going to go, get out, survive…</p>
<p>“Do you know me?” </p>
<p>The <i>go, get out, survive</i> side of his brain and the <i>get what you came back for and then go, get out, survive</i> side of his brain collide somewhere in the middle and he blurts, “You’re Steve,” before either part can think it through.</p>
<p>Strong probability at attempts of reconciliation, reminiscence, things for which they <i>do not have time</i> if they are to go, get out, survive, and even as he’s wondering how he so quickly transitioned to thoughts of <i>they</i> and <i>them</i> and he can’t <i>possibly</i> fall off the grid with Captain America in tow and especially not dressed like <i>that</i>, he takes careful aim at the hope flaring in those earnest eyes and fires. “I read about you in a museum.” </p>
<p>The shot misses.</p>
            </blockquote>





	My Name is Bucky

**Author's Note:**

> Bucharest was my absolute favorite part of the movie (that fight/chase sequence, that motorcycle, oh my), and here I've delved a bit into Bucky's head once he sees the newspaper. Because he went back. 
> 
> He _went back_.
> 
> He could have disappeared with his plums, but he went back for his backpack. His backpack that goes tragically missing after they're all apprehended. 
> 
> I already gave the backpack a survival fic, so here's one where it (spoiler alert) doesn't make it.

His face is on the front page of the newspaper. 

The kid at the shop stall saw him, ran; he’s already been made. 

He should go. 

He should go _now_. The clothes on his back, the food in his hand, he’s run with less before. It’s been nearly a day since the bombing; if the paper had his picture, then it’s undoubtedly been broadcast for hours on the television and the internet. Likelihood that the teenager selling papers was the first person to connect the quiet, reclusive man who just always happened to wear long sleeves and gloves to the metal-armed Winter Soldier: miniscule.

He should go. 

In the ten seconds it takes him to process that he’s being blamed for the bombing in Vienna and that the quiet existence he’s carved out for himself in Bucharest these past few months is coming to an abrupt close, his feet have already moved on autopilot, are carrying him into the flow of pedestrian traffic. A persistent voice in the back of his mind is constantly updating with priorities, contingencies.

If they’re already coming – and he’s no reason to assume otherwise – trains are out of the question, buses. He’s no doubt they’ll shut down the airports, despite the metal arm causing obvious issues on that front.

He needs to get out of the city, and he needs to do it fast, before they’re sure enough he’s not coming home to risk more alarming and inconveniencing measures like roadblocks and vehicle searches and curfews and –

Home. 

He stops, turns, sidesteps an annoyed man in a fraying business suit, and looks back down the street the way he came. Footsteps automatic, decades of procedures and protocols he doesn’t even want bouncing around in his head, urging him to keep moving, keep moving _away_ from where they’ll expect him to be. Blend in, keep moving, get out. Reassess. 

Except.

His feet have carried him three blocks in the time it’s taken his mind to snap out of its singular focus. That’s happened less and less, as the past two years have crept past in a never-ending nightmare of confusion and realization and complete fucking _horror_. And he hates it just as much as he did the first time he realized he’d slipped away from any semblance of present consciousness and let the autopilot of _programming_ take over. 

It might be useful; he doesn’t want it. Not when the mechanical voice growing louder in the back of his mind is saying go, get out, survive, and worry about the rest once you’ve done those things. Because the other voice, the voice he’s strived to listen to first and foremost, since it came roaring to the front with his metal fist poised over a bashed and broken face telling him to just _finish the mission_ , and once the new voice’s strangled cries had ceased wailing in his head as he saw the mission draw in a breath on the riverbank, it offered an inexplicable, oddly-accented _Sometimes I think you_ like _getting punched_ …

That voice reminds him that he doesn’t want to be _that_ again, the thing that exists and does and, in the absence of any more missions to complete, values survival above all else. Anything else. 

He knows better. Knows now that technically he has _survived_ the past seventy years, but that it would have been better – for himself, for the world – if he’d died in 1944, like everybody thought. Like the museum said. Steve’s museum.

Would that have been better for Steve? 

Unknown. Likely. He thinks the Steve and Bucky of 1944 would have been tickled at the idea of waking up in the future together, except only Steve got to wake up in the future, whereas _he_ got woken up a couple dozen times along the way, while Steve slept in a glacier, so he could go out and murder people. That’s the bad part for the world. 

The bad part for him, he now remembers (enough), is the years they spent teaching him how to murder people and how to be good at it. Which is maybe selfish, since those years were only particularly negative for _him_ , whereas the murdering years were bad for lots and lots of people, but he has a strong sense that his negative memories and emotions of the time he spent being programmed are particularly important to the goal of not letting it happen again, and so he needs to remember them.

Except.

His head, his memory – they aren’t to be trusted. Not since the voice of 1944 Bucky clawed its way to the front when Steve just _wouldn’t fight back_ , and left him in a dazed state of confusion over the warring orders of _complete the mission_ and _not Steve catch Steve save Steve_ , and when no one had showed up at the collection point so he could report his mission failure and accept punishment he had enough time to sit and mull over the mission and realize that there was something well and truly fucked up going on. 

He got the first notebook after staring at Steve’s face, and his own face, and then Steve’s face some more in a museum, before the mechanical voice, the one that’s even now screaming louder and louder as he approaches the door to his building instead of _running, escaping, surviving_ , started forcing tactical considerations on him and _get out, go now, the handlers will find you the enemy will find you Steve will find you_ …

Except.

The door to his apartment is open. Tactically unsound, broadcasting presence of an intruder, he could, should, run, could scale the wall to the window, could _walk in with no other weapon than his metal arm and the solitary knife in his pocket and have them all dead before they even –_

Or. No. 

The door to his apartment is open. Broadcasting presence of an intruder. Tactically unsound, _unless_ the intruder is not here to kill him _subdue him wipe him freeze him_ … 

No. Not again. Never again. 

The door to his apartment is open. Broadcasting presence of an intruder. Tactically unsound, unless the intruder… _wants_ to broadcast his presence to a notorious assassin and trust that the assassin, in turn, will not sweep in and make good on his reputation to _eliminate, extract, no witnesses…_

_No_. He doesn’t _do_ that anymore. 

The door to his apartment is open, broadcasting the presence of an intruder, and he pushes it silently to open it further, because the only person brave enough, trusting enough, foolish enough to broadcast his presence and stand with his goddamn back to the door while looking through an infamous assassin’s scant possessions…

He turns, and all of the calculations and analyses are drowned out by the rise of an inexplicable urge to knock the dumb helmet off of a dumb blond head. Because this is the man _I’m not gonna fight you_ who broadcast his presence, standing with his back to the door, his only weapon and defense strapped to his back, hands occupied, attention divided, and his sense of self-preservation is no better off now than it was in 1937 1943 1945 2014 and –

Oh. _Oh_. 

He’s dressed for a fight, but not one with the infamous asset whose stuff he’s been pawing through. He’s not here to take him in. 

He’s here to get him _out_. 

Aw, Steve. 

He’s trying to decide if Steve is that sure that he didn’t bomb the UN, or if he just doesn’t _care_ , when Steve asks the absolute most irrelevant question if they’re going to go, get out, survive…

“Do you know me?”

The _go, get out, survive_ side of his brain and the _get what you came back for and then_ _go, get out, survive_ side of his brain collide somewhere in the middle and he blurts, “You’re Steve,” before either part can think it through.

Strong probability at attempts of reconciliation, reminiscence, things for which they _do not have time_ if they are to go, get out, survive, and even as he’s wondering how he so quickly transitioned to thoughts of _they_ and _them_ and he can’t _possibly_ fall off the grid with Captain America in tow and especially not dressed like _that_ , he takes careful aim at the hope flaring in those earnest eyes and fires. “I read about you in a museum.”

The shot misses. 

Just as well. The notebooks _that he retrieves by punching through the floor next to his damn star-spangled head and if even_ that _doesn’t faze him then what will_ speak the lie in his words _Do you know me? I know you better than I know myself, they didn’t pick you apart, unmake you, break you, forge you anew, make you fight until there’s no one left except even then the fight just moved inward, into your own head and every day is a struggle to make sure you’re still listening to the right voice, and if that means living around the people you’re terrified of snapping and hurting, living amongst them so you’re forced to remember how to_ be _one of them then that’s what you’ll do, you’ll smile at the girl who serves your coffee and use your weaponized hand to feel for the ripeness of the fruit at the stand, you’ll live a life that could have been yours in some other reality, and at night write down what you remember of the life that_ was _yours, to maintain your grip on humanity, and then you force yourself to write down what you remember of the seventy years in the middle, because remembering it is vital to the goal of not anymore, not again, never again…_

There’s a cat. 

_Why_ is there…? 

It doesn’t matter. He’d have made it _away from the authorities away from Steve it’s not Steve they want they won’t punish Steve he’s Captain America but the robot said he’s a criminal and the Germans with the guns are pointing them at Steve too and something about Germans with guns aiming for Steve makes him think of lying in the snow and craving cigarettes and old bolt-action rifles and Steve lifting a hand towards him as if to say –_

“Stand _down_.”

Steve looks worried. The guy who couldn’t back down from a fight and stood in an assassin’s apartment, hands occupied, attention divided, back to the door, door open to broadcast his presence, and _now_ he worries that he’ll be harmed in the quest to _go, get out, survive, he can’t take a high-profile figure like Captain America off the grid but because he’s_ Steve _he’ll let him live when he starts with the one furthest on his left, deflect shots grab rifle snap arm -_

No. _No no no_. He doesn’t _do that anymore_. 

Stand down. The hand is telling him to stand down. The look is more wariness than worry and _does Steve know about the mechanical voice of the programming and the Brooklyn voice of the Bucky and –_

Oh. Of course he does _You’re lying You pulled me from the river Why_ and he knows what happens when the asset voice drowns out the Bucky voice like it did for seventy years and the world suffered but the Bucky didn’t really suffer because he didn’t often remember he _was_ the Bucky and whenever he started to they lanced it out of him like an irksome infestation and _not that not again never again_ Steve won’t let them put him back in the chair and the cold.

Right? 

The hand still says _stand down_ , and he relaxes his posture, masters his breathing, because he never could say no to Steve even when he didn’t remember that he was himself and all he had was that voice rising up screaming and _the end of the line_ and maybe this is the end of the line because Steve _did_ say they weren’t taking him alive and he _did_ say _I’m with you_ and here he is, and even if he probably meant that for the screaming voice rising from a seven-decade hibernation and not so much for the programming voice saying _hit him until he stops talking he’s the mission and you’re failing it, Soldier_ and if the survival-bent programming voice is a little stronger right now that’s okay, because the other voice is here too, in a dozen notebooks reminding him to be a person and not a weapon _not an asset not a nameless thing that goes back in the freezer when its use is ended_ and if they want to put a bullet in the head that’s still fighting down the _go, get out, survive and worry about the rest later_ voice, Steve can still have the voice that’s remembered all of the things about the Bucky who died in 1944.

Except.

Brave hands are grabbing him, pushing him to his knees, pulling the bag from his back and there are urgent voices and quick steps and he’s on the ground on his face as German voices on the radio are saying _Secure the bag_ and _Do not engage_ and _Could be rigged_ and _Cordon a safe area fifty meters from the tunnel exit and_ -

“Wait…” He tries to roll and gets a knee in the back for his efforts.

“Buck.” He blinks up as best he can to where Steve is speaking from three meters away because that’s the closest they’ll let him get and the robot and the cat and the -

Now there’s a bird. What the _fuck_? 

“Please, Buck. Don’t struggle. I won’t let them hurt you.”

Aw, Steve. 

But it’s a nice thought.

“My bag…”

Steve blinks and looks around; hadn’t even registered its disappearance. But then the radio at his back is crackling with a warning to _stand by_ and both voices are panicking, because the first still wants to _go, get out, survive_ , and if he turns just so, _snap the handcuffs bring left elbow into soldier’s sternum and face in quick succession and –_

No.

A countdown starts and the other voice is just screaming in rage and frustration because it can’t exist without those memories and – 

_Drei_  

-the mechanical programming voice relies on those memories to fight from becoming someone’s _Asset_ once more and –

_Zwei_

-Steve is here and if it’s the end of the line he deserves more for his troubles, coming all the way to Bucharest and becoming a criminal, than a lie told for the singular purpose of tactical efficiency and –

_Eins_

The muffled _crack_ of a controlled explosion comes, and a low, wounded noise escapes his throat _sign of weakness show no weakness show no pain order only comes through pain_ and Steve finally registers what’s going on and smiles apologetically down at him and –

And… 

And nothing.

A soldier still kneels on his back and he has not broken the handcuffs _broken his neck stolen his gun use his body as a shield and_ –

_No. He doesn’t do that anymore._

Even without his notebooks. Even if the programming voice is showing the slightest sign of personality in its smug sense of _told you so you should have gone, gotten out, survived, worried about the rest later_ and if Steve found his notebooks so what he could have stopped looking _but he’d never have stopped, not then, not knowing that the two years free of the cold and the chair and the lancing of every good thought, of every thought of_ self, _had at least returned the memories of who he used to be._

Even if Steve doesn’t realize that having Bucky’s memories and _being_ Bucky aren’t precisely the same thing.

 

They put him in a box. A chair in a box. A chair with restraints, and they close over his arms and ankles and muscle memory has him opening his mouth for the bite guard before both voices battle for control to remind him _not that not again never again_ and he isn’t here to be wiped and put away, he’s here because someone who looks like James Buchanan Barnes killed people at the United Nations building in Vienna and they weren’t planning on taking him alive but Steve found him first _like he should have done in 1944 except that’s not fair because he never should have survived that fall and Steve didn’t know and the books and the museum and the internet tell him that Steve vowed to burn Hydra to the ground for it anyway –_

Or. Well. Sent them so far underground that they kept their prized assassin on ice in between missions for maximum secrecy.

So he sits in restraints in a chair in a box on a plane to Berlin and then his box is put on a truck, and he spends this time in transit reminding himself of the memories that make him _him_ and not somebody’s Asset, that make him a person and not a weapon, that make him want to avoid becoming those things again at all costs, and he remembers all of those things even if his pages and pages of notes are ash on a street in Bucharest and-

And he _remembers_. He remembers Steve _small sick stubborn Steve_ and Steve _I thought you were dead I thought you were smaller Captain America_ and the Steve who gave it all up on a disintegrating ship high in the air because _I’m with you ‘til the end of the line_ and the shield falling through the broken panes to plummet to the river below, for the hollowed echoes of the person he’d once been and –

And a man has been speaking at him from a table set several feet away, even though he’s still in restraints in a chair in a box, and he calls him James _who the hell is James your name is James Buchanan Barnes you’ve known me your whole life_ and he makes a choice.

Because he can. Because the notes piecing together his scrambled head reminding him _who you are who you were who you never want to be again_ are gone, and he _remembers_ , and maybe he’ll never be that again and maybe he’ll never be completely free of the mechanical voice of the programming but maybe that’s okay because _I’m not going to kill anyone_ and he didn’t, he mastered it, and Steve came for him even though he _shot Steve stabbed Steve hit Steve not Steve catch Steve save Steve_ and maybe…

Maybe he can have this.

He makes a choice. Because he can. Because Steve deserves more than a lie told for the singular purpose of tactical efficiency.

He opens his mouth for the first time since the aborted movement to accept the bite guard. 

He hopes Steve is listening.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Shout-out to **tellmeaboutthedream** whose story _Spaces Between Our Goodbyes_ inspired discussion of the sadness notebooks and the idea that maybe they didn't make it out of Bucharest.


End file.
